


A November Evening

by austenfan1990



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poirot gets invited to Hastings' annual regimental dinner on the twentieth anniversary of the Armistice to give a speech. All goes well until the Captain receives attention from a source his Belgian friend doesn't quite approve of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A November Evening

It was a cold November evening when I was driving the Lagonda back to Whitehaven Mansions. Beside me was Poirot, dressed immaculately as ever in white tie, a thick black wool overcoat and two mufflers (‘One muffler is not sufficient for a night as cold as this, Hastings,’ he had complained when I advised him that one was quite enough). I myself was similarly dressed though I must confess that I don’t make it a habit to wear my war medals in so public a fashion, the various colourful ribbons providing a stark contrast to my black tailcoat.

Today, however, was a special occasion – it was the twentieth anniversary of the Armistice and we had just left my old regiment’s annual dinner commemorating the event. The organisers having learnt that one of their former officers was a friend of the most famous Belgian in the country and quite possibly the world then called upon me a couple of weeks ago to ask Poirot whether he would be willing to make a speech at the dinner. After all, Britain had gone to war to safeguard his country’s neutrality and he was not slow to recognise the importance of such an occasion and accepted the invitation immediately.

Upon our arrival in that crowded reception room, Poirot was naturally the centre of attention and I was more than happy to take my customary place by his side, glass in hand as we awaited the start of dinner. This evening however I was delegated a new and quite unfamiliar role – that of a minor celebrity as an old war hero. The organisers had also taken it upon themselves to invite several young officers – all of them, I noted, must have been only toddlers when war had broken out in 1914 – to our usually exclusive dinners in an attempt for the new as it were to mingle with the old.

I have never thought of myself as a war hero and have always regarded my actions at the Somme as stemming more out of duty to protect the men under my command rather than sheer bravery. The young officers now crowding around me apparently thought otherwise. Their attention was flattering to say the least but I was unused to such attention and found it slightly overwhelming and I suddenly felt nothing but admiration for Poirot who, being the famous detective that he is, had to undergo this sort of thing nearly every day. But I decided to endure the experience for just this evening and I conversed with them as well as I could, observing out of the corner of my eye Poirot shooting me the odd glance or other from the other side of the room.

Thankfully, dinner was served not long afterwards at the end of which Poirot gave a splendid speech relating the special relationship between his country and our own. Such was the warm reception that he received that he had to ask politely for silence before he was allowed to reach his conclusion.

‘It is not only Belgium which thanks you and your fallen comrades, _messieurs_. I, Hercule Poirot, also thank you for England has given me many things in my life. Recognition, support, understanding and above all, a home when my own in Belgium was threatened and taken away.’ Here he caught my eye and I knew instantly that he was speaking directly to me. ‘And for that, you have my eternal gratitude.’

I joined the rest in rising to our feet in hearty applause and Poirot smiled, turning his gaze around the large table and raising a glass for a toast.

‘Marvellous speech, Poirot,’ I whispered as we sat back down, taking his hand out of sight under the table.

‘Thank you, _mon cher_ ,’ he replied, squeezing my hand gently and gazing directly into my eyes. ‘And I meant every word of it.’

The look in his eyes was such that made me want to abandon the dinner immediately and head home with Poirot. Perhaps reading my face, Poirot gave my hand another squeeze and added lowly:

‘In time, Hastings, in time. We will be home together soon enough.’

I nodded with reluctance and before long, Poirot was again besieged with more of the officers wanting to converse with him after dinner as we all moved into the smoking room. Being not much of a smoker myself, I detached myself a little from the group and stepped onto the small terrace outside, welcoming the bracing cold air and taking a sip of my coffee. Hopes for some time left to myself were dashed however when a someone approached me on the terrace.

‘I say, you might not remember me, Captain Hastings but I’m Cecil Parker,’ said the man, proffering his hand which I shook once I recognised his face.

‘Of course, you were there with me at the Somme,’ I cried.

‘Yes, and you saved my life there too. I’ve never forgotten that.’

‘Well, it was more of being there at the right time,’ I said modestly, recalling the event when I had pushed the then Lieutenant Parker to safety when the Germans had unleashed a volley of machine-gun fire in his direction. I survived the encounter with a bullet in my leg which ended my time in the army once and for all and so did Parker though I had no idea where he had gone after we had been carried to the field hospital. He had been a remarkably good-looking man then and I was more than surprised that he retained his looks into early middle age though of course he appeared considerably older now.

‘Are you still in the army?’

‘No. The Somme put me out of the war for good, I’m afraid. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t remember. The years might fall away but you can’t forget a thing like that, can you, Hastings?’

‘No, you can’t,’ I agreed solemnly, knowing all too well that even two decades had not lessened the trepidation with which we sometimes recalled our experiences in the war. I was fortunate not to have been affected by what we later termed as ‘shellshock’ although there were occasions, particularly during stressful investigations, when I woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and it was only after Poirot’s soothing ministrations that I was able to fall asleep again.

As we reminisced quietly upon old times and friends long gone, a young man joined us on the terrace. Parker turned and greeted him.

‘Ah, there you are, Christopher. This is my nephew, Christopher Roberts, Hastings. Passed out of Sandhurst just this April,’ said Parker as the young man stepped forward to shake my hand. ‘As you can imagine, the whole family’s dashed proud of him.’ If Parker had been a good-looking youth in his day, his nephew was close to being a Greek god with clear blue eyes, fair hair and a perfect profile to whom I offered my warmest congratulations.

‘Thank you, sir,’ smiled Roberts. ‘And may I say that it’s an honour to meet you at last, Captain Hastings. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.’

‘Oh, really?’ I said rather distractedly. Beauty, whether feminine or masculine had always one of my weak points as Poirot had noted countless times and I was still marvelling at the man’s stunning looks.

‘Christopher knew already, of course, that you got that OBE of yours at the Somme but once he knew you were an old friend of mine, he could barely contain his excitement in meeting you this evening,’ added his uncle.

‘I suppose he’s heard of me due to my accounts of Poirot’s cases. Does crime interest you at all, Lieutenant Roberts?’

Roberts, as it turned out, showed a great interest in the subject and we all took part in an intense discussion of the various cases that Poirot and I had taken on over the years when the temperature dropped considerably, forcing us to return inside.

When we re-entered the smoking room, Poirot was sitting in an armchair with a glass of cognac in one hand, one of his tiny Russian cigarettes in the other and looking oddly lost in a sea teeming with military officers. His meditative expression brightened as I made my way towards him, Parker and Roberts following close behind me.

‘Just popped out onto the terrace outside and bumped into an old friend of mine,’ I said in reply to his inquisitive gaze. ‘Poirot, this is Cecil Parker and his nephew, Lieutenant Roberts.’

‘A pleasure to finally meet you, Monsieur Poirot,’ said Roberts, shaking Poirot firmly by the hand and I could see that Poirot, like myself, was equally affected by the man’s startling looks. ‘You are fortunate, sir, to have such a gifted chronicler of your cases.’

I flushed slightly, unused to praise, but was exceedingly proud of the comment nonetheless.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ replied Poirot, glancing at me. ‘I must say that I am sometimes unsure of the good Captain’s narrative at times but _oui_ , I am indeed fortunate to have such a friend.’

We talked a while longer but seeing as the hour was growing late and that many of the party were making their way home, Poirot and I decided to follow their example and took our leave.

Since our departure however, Poirot had not said a word. I hazarded a guess that he was probably tired and knowing full well that we were both not getting any younger with age, I left him alone, relishing the quiet as I drove through the now silent streets.

Within a quarter of an hour, we had arrived at Whitehaven Mansions and we wordlessly shuffled ourselves inside our humble abode, seeking warmth and shelter from the freezing cold outside. It was already past ten and both of us being early risers were already beginning to feel the weariness which strikes one after a long evening. We thus prepared to turn in for the night and it was only when I was changing into my nightclothes that we spoke for the first time since we arrived home.

‘You were awfully quiet in the car, Poirot,’ I asked, as I loosened my bow tie. Poirot was seated on the bed, wearing his smoking jacket and oddly making no attempt to change into his pyjamas.

There was a measured silence before he simply said: ‘You were quite the celebrity this evening, Hastings.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say a celebrity really,’ I said, off-handedly. ‘Why I got so much attention this evening boggles me.’

‘It should not be so boggling, as you put it, Hastings. The young men of today know as well as we do that another war is on the horizon. And therefore, what better to do than to look back at the war heroes of the last war and take after their example?’

‘Steady on, Poirot,’ I said, finding all this praise rather surreal. I had grown so used to Poirot’s criticisms over the years and though I still found them irritating and even hurtful at times, compliments from him were even more unsettling. Come to think of it, he had been in a fairly odd mood since we had left the dinner and I wondered what had come over him. Was it due to the memories of the war? Or had someone said something to him while I had been outside on the terrace? Furthermore, there was now a strange, pensive expression on his face which I had never seen before and I declared quietly:

‘Something’s bothering you, isn’t there?’

Poirot shrugged his most Gallic shrug and I sighed, setting down my waistcoat on the back of a chair.

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘There’s no use hiding anything from me.’

He of course strongly denied that there was something on his mind but having been with him for so long, I was able to see through his protests. It was quite a struggle to get a word from him but in the end, I managed to get to him to talk and the first words he uttered surprised me.

‘I did not like what I saw this evening, Hastings.’

‘You didn’t like what?’ I asked, completely confused as to what he was referring to.

He shot me a meaningful look but probably realising that I had no idea what he was talking about, he sighed and went on:

‘I did not like to see the young officers crowding around you this evening. No manners at all, _mon Dieu_! And most of all…’ He stopped, appearing unsure as if he should continue. ‘And most of all, I did not like Lieutenant Roberts.’

‘Oh, the young lads were awfully nice chaps, you know. A little too eager and impulsive perhaps but they didn’t bother me in the least. And Roberts, well, he’s just full of life, that one...reminds me really of what we all used to be like when we joined the army…’

‘He caught your attention, yes?’

‘Only the blind wouldn’t take notice of him,’ I said, picking up my waistcoat. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look quite like him.’

‘Like the kind one encounters in the mythology of the ancient Greeks perhaps?’

‘Interesting that you mention that, Poirot, because the first thing I thought of was that he looked fairly like a Greek god or something. I say, that famous youth who Aphrodite fell in love with…what’s his name?’

‘Adonis?’

‘That’s the one,’ I nodded. ‘Roberts is certainly going to be a catch for any young lady who’s lucky enough to come along his path.’

‘Or any man.’

Something in Poirot’s tone made me pause as I put away my waistcoat and I turned towards him, realisation suddenly hitting me.

‘My God,’ I breathed. ‘You don’t mean that – that you’re jealous, Poirot?’

‘Our present day Adonis was more than a little interested in you tonight,’ he replied grimly. ‘Surely that would not have escaped your notice as well as his good looks.’

‘Oh, Poirot. You silly, _silly_ little man.’

For once, Poirot did not protest against my reprimands. I abandoned my waistcoat and instead swiftly sat next to him.

‘You must realise you’re still what you call a “catch”, _mon cher_ ,’ he murmured softly when he finally looked at me. ‘Especially with all the attention you received from not only Roberts but the rest of the young officers at the dinner. You must have noticed the looks they gave you.’

‘Damn their looks, Poirot. I could hardly care less about them.’

‘You sound very certain of yourself, Hastings.’

‘Because I _am_ certain. And if you don’t believe me, here’s your proof.’

I pulled him roughly towards me, capturing his lips in a deep kiss which was made all the more passionate with all the exasperation at his recent behaviour coursing through my veins. At length, we pulled away from each other, slightly breathless but I at least appeared to have finally convinced him of my opinion in the matter and he smiled at me, his eyes glowing appreciatively.

‘Besides, you can be quite sure that if there’s anyone I’d want to be “caught” by, it’s not Adonis,’ I added.

‘No?’

‘No. Only Hercules will do the trick for me, I’m afraid,’ I said and Poirot’s smile turned into a grin.

‘Thank you, _mon cher_.’

‘Not at all. Now get ready for bed.’

‘Without delay,’ said Hercule Poirot.

**Author's Note:**

> Agatha Christie never mentioned how and why Hastings received an OBE (Officer of the Order of the British Empire) but I've figured that if Poirot didn't receive a similar sort of honour during his career in England, Hastings must have got it for his war service or at the Somme. Something to muse over, methinks.


End file.
